Angelica's Inferno
by MaggieX
Summary: What happens if the meek inherit the earth with the pen that is mightier than the sword? Mulder and Scully investigate, and Scully discovers just how many levels of hell actually exist. Shippy moments.
1. Hot Time In The Cube Farm Last Night

She pulled into parking space number 45, third tier, far right hand corner of the parking garage. She snapped the radio off in mid-sentence of the client's brand new jingle, but she didn't care. She was too tired, and it would not have mattered anyway. She rest her head against the steering wheel and closed her eyes, wishing she hadn't forced them to suffer her contacts again after only a three hour reprieve. She had worked far too many fourteen hour days in recent memory; twelve, to be exact. And it was going to be the same today, weekend or not.

She walked the four city blocks to the Peterman Building, and took the elevator up to the eighth floor cube farm she called the office. She was in the farthest corner of the office, in the tiniest cube near the fire exit door. The only consolation she could find was that if there was ever a raging conflagration, she would be the first to escape - that is after she had been forced to let the other people out who were too lazy to save themselves. People were always asking her to let them in or out through this alternate exit after sneaking out for a quick smoke or secret trips to the vending machines or other mid-workday rendezvous. Someone else would have complained or asked for alternate arrangements, but 38 year old Junior copywriters could not complain. Not ones with bills to pay and financial obligations to meet. And so she kept silent. It was, for the moment, all that she could do.

Angelica made her way through the dim office and over to her desk. The first thing she saw as she switched on the florescent desk lamp was the small photo of her cat, Hyperbole. She stared at it for a moment, then gently reached out to touch the photo as if she could comfort him. She had to get out today as soon as possible, at least for a little while so that she could get to the Vet's office. If she had been an hourly employee, she would not have minded the extra hours. At least they would help pay the mounting vet bills. She sat down at her desk, and reached down to turn on the CPU tower.

He was all snake oil, sharp-suited, Madison Avenue smooth-talking Ad man from the perfectly coiffed hair to hand-made, Italian leather shoes. And as Senior Copywriter, was ten years her junior as well as her boss. Angelica sensed she wasn't alone, and when she turned to face her visitor. she knew he had not been home. He must had had another hot date, because he was not the type to stay late at the office. He had risen to a position of power and wealth with the Ad agency not through hard work and skill, but by selling off enough of his conscience and small reserve of scruples he had left. 

He perched himself on the corner of her desk. "Here on a weekend, Fittabaldee?" he inquired. "It's Fittipaldi," she said under her breath. "What?" he asked, pretending not to hear her the first time. "I wanted to get a jump on the Image Jeans campaign," she replied. "I thought maybe if I came in when it was quiet, I could come up with some ideas. You know; no distractions...."

"You knew when you took this job that we were one big happy family, here," he replied. "lots of energy here. Some people are distracted by that..."

"Oh, I know," she replied quickly, "And I'm getting used to it. Just need to get into the groove; that's all." Her boss got up to leave. "I heard the new radio spot for Banker's Blend Coffee," she continued. "it sounded great." She paused. "I was hoping maybe you could put in a good word for me to one of the partners. I think it would sound better coming from you..." "Hey, Fitzie," he interrupted, "I won't say the whole, 'there's no I in team' bullshit- somebody else did that and it was still corny. But we are a team. So I very well can't call attention or single you out now, can I?"

Advertising's supposed wunderkind turned to walk out of the office, but turned around and walked over to the fire exit door. "Let me out, will ya? Closer to the car, you know." Angelica got up, and opened the door. "Don't forget; presentation's first thing Monday morning, so make sure something's on my desk first thing."

Angelica watched as the door closed behind him. "Monday morning," she thought, "great. And I suppose I'm supposed to sleep here tonight." She sat back down at her desk, and opened her top drawer to look for her notes. The first thing she saw was the bag from Your Heart's Desire. She had gone to the small SoHo shop on a rare lunch break, and the blank book and quill pen caught her eye. The shopkeeper said that it would be the key to everything she had ever wanted....

She pulled the book and pen out of the bag. She remembered a time when the only way she could write, could create was to put actual pen to paper and let the ideas flow. Back when she was younger. Back when she believed she could write the great American novel. "Maybe I've been going about this all wrong," she thought. She sat down, opened the book to the first page, and began.


	2. Culture Shock

"His what did what?!"

Scully was perched on the counter in Mulder's office, finishing her half of the bagel that Mulder had yet to touch. "You might want to put that down until I finish." "Why don't I hear what that is, Mulder, and make my decision then?" Scully replied. She took a big bite of bagel in her mouth, and waited.

"His peeper went boom-boom..."

"Hmm?!"

"His willie went wonkers"

"What?" Scully said, her mouth still half-full of bagel and cream cheese.

"His pecker..."

Scully held up her hand. "Enough, Mulder! I should expect a top graduate of Oxford University could find an intelligent way to converse, or at least not resort to banal, elementary school banter." 

"At least you can't say that I resorted to potty-mouth."

"Barely, Mulder..."

He pushed the file folder across the desk to Scully. "Examine the file of one mister Andrew 'Player' Edgerstone, Scully. Senior copywriter of Panache advertising, a subsidiary of Peterman Consolidated Industries. The wunderkind of wunderkinds; the biggest Mac Daddy of them all, responsible for some of the catchiest copy in Christendom...."

As Mulder prattled on, Scully opened the file, and peered in. The crime scene photo was on top, and Scully's reflex action was to spit out what was in her mouth into her napkin.

"BLECH!"

"Is this where I say I told you so, Scully?"

"Mulder, this man's reproductive organs went.."

".....Pop! goes the pecker ..."

"Mulder, please! I'm sure the victim didn't find it funny."

"No, actually I imagine he found it quite painful initially."

Scully looked at him with her infamous, one-eyebrow lift face, but Mulder was undeterred.

"So, can I tell you why I think this is an X-Files, Scully. PLEEZZEEEE? I've been a very good little boy today..."

Scully knew there was no stopping him when he was like this.

"Yes, Mulder," she sighed, you may. I wouldn't expect anything else at this juncture."

Mulder stood up and sat on the corner of the desk. "The man most likely to explode is the first of five deaths in a month at this particular ad agency - all of the deaths were strange, very strange indeed. One person's head exploded...."

"That is highly unlikely, Mulder.."

"I can show you the photos, Scully."

"Please don't."

Mulder continued, satisfied that he had made his point. "Another simply turned blue in the face.... I could go on, but I would hate to deprive you of the joy of reading each and every one of the case reports." Scully smirked at Mulder playfully. "Thank you ever so much. Mulder; I'm touched..."

"...In the head, Scully, but I told them that wasn't true, and to not sully the Scully name in my presence again."

Mulder grabbed his suit jacket off the coat tree, and headed towards the door. "And just where do you think you're going, Mister?" she asked. "I could use some help with these files." "Much as I would love to pour over these files with you Scully - and that is the God's -honest truth - I need to go to Skinner's office, and then I need to do some errands for this evening. I have to go and see Der Fleidermaus at the cultural center. Whoo-Boy!" 

"Don't make it seem like a death sentence, Mulder. You could actually end up liking it." 

Mulder walked over to the door. "I'd better; Skinner's orders. I'll try to get back with you some time today, but please - don't let it keep you from today's daily meditation. Enjoy, Scully."

"You too, Mulder."

Scully sighed, and opened the first file. Even though she was a medical doctor and trained forensic scientist, the picture made her gag.

"Oh, you are soooo toast, Mulder," she sighed.


	3. Meet 'n Greet

Angelica looked like a nearsighted lampshade, and she knew it. She didn't have the time to go out and actually shop for the right outfit, so she had to settle for the least brides-maidy thing in her closet. The dress she chose was Eggplant with a sweeping full skirt that was meant to be supported by a hooped petticoat. The sleeves were off the shoulder, white and 'poofy' - the best word in the English lexicon to describe their shape. She somehow managed to beat the sleeves into what passed for submission, but it hadn't been easy. She couldn't help it that her first turn as a bridesmaid was three months after the Royal Wedding. "Oh well," she thought as she looked at herself, "maybe I can pass it off as SoHo Eighties retro-chic." It wouldn't have been so bad if she hadn't been cursed to wear her glasses, but forty-eight hours straight without removing her contacts had finally taken their toll. Her eyes needed a rest, she needed a rest, but she knew that wasn't going to happen soon.

She was tired, but at least it was because she was working more hours and getting paid for them. She'd also gotten a promotion. True, it was out of necessity for the company, but she liked to think that her promotion to Senior Copywriter had at least a little bit to do with her talent. And the increase in salary was a welcomed blessing; Hyperbole was at the vet's again. It especially for that reason that she didn't want to go to D.C. "It's a _cat_," the senior partner said when she told her of her concern. "My God; how long have you had that thing, anyway?" When Angelica couldn't respond out of shock to her boss's insensitivity, she made things worse by saying, "what's the matter, Fitipaldi? That cat of yours got your tongue?" Her boss took a minute to laugh at her lame excuse for humor. "She's a cat, she's got nine lives. We, unfortunately, only have one shot for landing this account. So, go down to D.C. and do whatever it is you need to do to convince these stupid fucks you can write copy that will convince people to actually go to an arts center built in one of the worst neighborhoods in town. Take the rest of the afternoon and get ready," her boss said as she left. She looked at Angelica as though she were evaluating a flawed blueline. "Just in case it might take a while."

Angelica took the extra time off not to scour Midtown for the latest in formal eveningwear, but to go to the vet's to check on Hyperbole. She did not look well at all, and Angelica could tell by the Vet's face he was trying to find a way to tell her. 

"So, Hyperbole's thirteen years young, you say?" Angelica nodded, trying almost unsuccessfully to keep from crying. 

"I can tell she's lived a long and happy life and was loved very much.."

"_Is_, Dr. Foster; she _is loved _very much."

"Yes, of course." 

"You have my cel number," Angelica continued, and I'll be staying at the Mayflower Hotel in D.C. Please...."

"Don't worry, Ms. Fitipaldi," the doctor replied gently, "should anything happen at all, we will call you." Angelica gently picked up her beloved pet. "Momma's got to leave for a little bit, Hy," she whispered as she stroked her cat. "But if you promise not to croak on her, you'll be drinking cream out of Waterford crystal."

Had she not had to go back to her apartment to get her journal, she would have made the Amtrak to D.C. in plenty of time. She ended up being the last person on the train, jamming her foot and overnight bag in the door as it closed. Her successful attempt to board the train delayed it because her action caused a malfunction in the door mechanism. Angelica crouched down low in her seat as the rest of the passengers spit nails into their cel phones as they complained about the delay. The train left Pen Station, New York thirty minutes behind schedule. 

The Amtrak Acela made up for lost time, and arrived in Washington, D.C. five minutes ahead of schedule. Angelica wanted to walk, so she decided to take the subway to the hotel. Not being able to see very well in her glasses, Angelica read the wrong train schedule, and got on the wrong car. 

When she ended up in Georgetown, she wished she had taken a cab.

Angelica followed her instincts the next time and took a cab from Georgetown to the hotel. She barely had time to shower and change before she had to hail another cab to the arts center. When she told the cabbie where she needed to go, she could see the hesitation in his face. "Oh great," she thought to herself. "Just how bad _is_ this neighborhood?"

The cab pulled up to the front doors of the Franklin Delano Roosevelt Cultural Center for the Arts and pointed across the street. "The police substation's over there, m'am," he said as she got out of the cab. "Not that I think you'll need it, but you never know."

The Roosevelt Center as it was called was a towering edifice of glass, marble, brass and steel. The architects and the community members involved with the project designed the building five years earlier as the cornerstone of a neighborhood revitalization and renaissance. The building was beautiful, the building was breathtaking, and as she sat in a pitch meeting with the V.P. of Marketing, Angelica wondered how long before it would be turned into a bowling alley. 

As she sat in the meeting with the client, Angelica was amazed at the clarity with which she conducted the pitch. She took a moment to stand outside of herself, splitting her psyche into two parts. There was Angelica, the Senior Copywriter-slash-account executive pitching "the Roosevelt Renaissance" campaign to the client, and there was Angelica, worried parent of the most precious living thing in her life - her cat, Hyperbole. Angelica was surprised that she successfully completed the pitch under the circumstances, and she was equally surprised when her client ate it up with a silver spoon. They liked the idea of the "Roosevelt Renaissance," the campaign designed to position the FDR Cultural Center for the Arts as the lynchpin of a neighborhood re-birth. It was _the_ campaign, the client believed, that would catapult the cultural center into national prominence and revitalize the neighborhood. It was the plan that would make people old enough to remember the race riots and neighborhood burnings of the late Sixties forget the turbulence of the times and shell out New York prices to see art being made in metro D.C. Angelica felt sorry for the client; to hear them tell it, this pile of dreck did everything short of making the perfect souffle.

When the meeting ended earlier than expected, Angelica hoped that she could bow out of attending the Opera; she had it all planned. When she opened her mouth to feign a migraine, the V.P. of Marketing invited her to the on-site bar for a celebratory drink. When the client ordered a glass of red wine, Angelica couldn't help but feel a sense of impending doom. Angelica got a glass of safe, colorless white wine, and thought the danger had passed until she managed somehow to knock the white wine on the client's beige evening gown, and the red wine directly into her own lap. Angelica did not want to know how close that bone-headed move took her to loosing the account, but apparently the client had enough pre-meeting cocktails not to care. When she was certain she still had the account, she asked the bartender for the ladies' room; she didn't want to chance opening her mouth to the client, and screwing things up yet again. 

Angelica left the bar and walked through the lobby. As she made her way past the shining brass theater doors, she took stock of her situation and decided one thing: she was an idiot. "Just who in the hell am I trying to fool?" she thought as she caught her image in every passing door. She looked like a clown; a lump in a circus dress with an embarrassing wet stain in an embarrassing spot. She knew what she looked like, she knew who she was. She didn't need the distorted images to tell her, but the huge brass doors showed her the person she truly thought she was as cruel reinforcement; Angelica the stupid; Angelica the dolt; Angelica the ugly; Angelica the klutz. She stared at her reflection in these doors as she passed, she stared at them so hard that she didn't notice the step that led down to the lower level and to the ladies room. 

It wasn't until she saw her own foot extended high in the air in front of her that she realized she was going to fall.

Angelica fell forward as though someone had stood behind her and pulled the rug out from under her feet. Although the spill was only a matter of seconds, Angelica felt herself flying through the air in supper-slo-mo-speed. It was as though her whole miserable life was a bad, "B" rate movie, and someone somewhere was slowing the frames for dramatic effect. She hit the floor hard, face first, driving her glasses painfully into her face and into the bridge of her nose. For what seemed like an eternity, she lay on the floor, the spindly nubs of carpeting pressing into her cheeks. Angelica wanted to make herself smaller than she already felt at that minute, and even ground her face into the carpet, thinking that if she pressed hard enough, she could push her way to China. It was when she was at her lowest ebb that she heard the voice of her savior.

"Are you alright, Miss?" he said

Angelica didn't move; she didn't want to. She was certain everyone in Washington, D.C. had gathered around her, just waiting for her to turn over so they could point and laugh at her expense.

"Should I get a doctor, Miss?" he asked.

Angelica screwed up her courage, and slowly turned over. She cautiously brought her hands down to her sides, half expecting her dress to be up somewhere around her chest. When she thankfully discovered it wasn't, she heard his voice again.

"Here; why don't I give you a hand?"

Angelica's eyes began at his patent-leather dress slippers, and worked their way up his long legs. They traveled to his cummerbund, counted each of the Onyx shirt studs, and examined the knot in his black tie. They rested on his soulful, Hazel eyes, and as they did, Angelica had an epiphany; Angelica reached a startling realization.

She, Angelica Lisette Fittipaldi, stared into the face of Adonis.

This man, her savior, her newest revelation reached down from on high into the morass of her life and took her hand. As he lifted her up, she could feel herself soaring as if on wings. Her feet finally touched earth, and she stared at him, unable to utter a single word. 

"You took a pretty hard spill there, Miss..."

"Uh...." Angelica grunted.

"You ok?"

"Uh-huh," Angelica replied. 

"The carpet _is_ kind of slick; I almost took a spill when I walked in."

She finally spoke, thankfully remembering after her initial shock that she had more than a rudimentary command of her mother tongue. "I...Think I'll be...Alright. Thank you, mister.." Her shining knight extended his hand. "Mulder; Fox Mulder." Angelica gingerly took his hand, and shook it. 

"Angelica Fitipaldi; traveling klutz..."

"Don't be so hard on yourself, Ms. Fitipaldi; it could have happened to anyone."

"You're too kind," Angelica demurred. "Thank you."

The lobby lights began to flicker, and the bells began to chime for the start of the first act. "I think that's our cue," her savior replied. "Thank you again, Mr. Mulder," Angelica replied. He smiled at her, and Angelica thought the brilliance of that smile was enough to illuminate the darkest of rooms. "Glad I could help; enjoy the show."

She stood there and watched him depart, and had her face not hurt, she would have thought it was all a dream. It took a while for her to notice the vibration coming from her evening bag, and another second for her to realize it was her cel phone. She took out her phone, and read the screen.

"Lex Ave Vet" was all it said.

It was at that moment that the cracked bridge of her glasses separated, and her unwanted eyewear fell to the ground.


	4. Blinded

Angelica couldn't see a thing without her glasses, but it didn't matter. She was blinded by tears as an usher led her to the door and hailed a cab. She was able to choke out the name of her hotel, and the driver tried to comfort her as she rested her head against the glass. It was no use; she was inconsolable. When she arrived at the Mayflower, the doorman motioned to a bellhop and asked him to escort Angelica to her room. When they arrived upstairs, Angelica fumbled around her evening bag for a tip and shoved a five dollar bill in the bellhop's hand. He tried to refuse it, but Angelica ignored him by shutting the door in his face. She stumbled over to the big, square, blurry mass in the center of the room, and threw herself on top of it. She sank down into the comforter, and sobbed.

Hyperbole was dead.

Hyperbole was dead, and she was alone.

Hy was just a kitten when Angelica found her late in the cold and rainy autumn night. They were both soaked; the kitten from being abandoned by someone too lazy to find her a good home, and Angelica from wandering the rain in shock. It had been some twenty-fifth birthday party; her so-called boyfriend deciding her birthday party was the perfect time to announce to their mutual friends he was getting married - but not to her. Angelica managed a brave smile as she wished him her heartiest congratulations, choked down a tumbler full of gin, and ran outside for some air. 

She didn't have to see the looks of pity on her friends' faces to know they were there.

She wandered the city streets in nothing but a T-shirt and jeans, not really seeing what was in front of her or behind her. She didn't feel the cold; she didn't feel her body shake from it. She didn't feel anything at all.

It was the tiny, mewing noise that made her stop.

Hy was so cold when she found her that she could see her little body tremble and shake with the cold. Angelica picked her up completely out of instinct, and held her close to her. She didn't know if she was warm enough to warm the tiny creature, but after a few minutes, the abandoned kitten stopped shaking, and began to purr. It was in this moment of kindness that Angelica discovered something. 

Angelica discovered unconditional love did exist, even in the face of deepest cruelty.

And now that love was gone.

When Angelica grew too tired to cry, she sat up. She sat on the bed in the darkened room listening to the muffled sounds of the street and the heavy sighing of her soul. She felt empty; she felt lost. Then, after a while, she felt the tiny spark of another emotion.

Anger.

__

"You know whose fault this is; it's that bitch boss of yours...." 

Angelica dismissed the thought as quickly as it entered her mind, but it echoed again through her head.

__

"You should have been there with Hy, Angelica, and you know it. But that bitch boss made you come down here on this idiotic presentation. If the client was that damned important, why couldn't she put her ass on the train? Why couldn't she put her ass on the line?" 

Angelica stood up, and felt her way in the dark to the bathroom. She turned on the light, turned on the faucet, and splashed cold water on her face to clear her head.

__

"Why are you doing this, Angelica? You're a writer; not some sycophant who needs to lick somebody's ass to find out what success tastes like. You're a writer, damnit!"

"I'm a writer," Angelica said aloud.

Angelica put her contacts in and, amazingly, her eyes did not reject them. Now able to see clearly for the first time in hours, she left the bathroom and turned on all the lights in the room. She found her suitcase, rooting through it like a dog looking for a buried bone. After a few minutes, she found it.

Her journal.

Writing was the only constant other than Hyperbole that kept her grounded; it was her anchor as well as her kite, the thing she did whether she was happy or sad, joyous or mad. She wrote when she didn't know what else she could do, and that was what she would do now.

Angelica walked over to the desk, and sat down. She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as she opened her journal and began to write.


	5. Tarmac

"They say the neon lights are bright on Broadway, Scully.."

"Yeah, and whoever said there was always magic in the air, Mulder, didn't have to land in Newark."

It was Mulder's turn to keep up with Scully as they raced through Terminal "C" at Newark airport. Scully was a woman with a mission, and Mulder could tell by the edge in her voice she had an axe to grind as well.

"I'm sensing you're still a little angry, Scully," Mulder said cautiously. Scully looked straight ahead as she walked. "Oh, I've worked my way down to just 'pissed' Mulder. You should consider yourself lucky."

"I always have, Scully."

"I mean, would it have killed you. Mulder, to give me more than ten minutes notice to let me know we were coming to New York?"

"I thought I did, Scully..."

"Telling me, 'I don't know yet, but we might be going somewhere sometime soon' isn't notice, Mulder..."

"But I wasn't sure if Skinner would approve the travel voucher..."

Scully reached the rental car counter three steps ahead of Mulder. "Like that's ever stopped you before." Scully responded to the rental agent before he had a chance to speak. 

"Reservation number 1013," she barked.

"And yes, there was a 'please' in there," Mulder replied.

Scully turned to Mulder as the rental agent left. "But do you see why I'm so exasperated, Mulder?" Scully asked. "I have spent two and a half hours in a cramped economy seat, the joy of which was only augmented by spending an hour and a half sitting on the runway. Sitting, Mulder - not taxiing, not moving, just sitting. Definitely not the way I planned to spend my day." "I'm sorry, Scully," Mulder replied. "I know we both didn't plan on coming to New York today, but when have we ever planned any of our cases? The only thing we can predict is their unpredictability, that's all."

Mulder looked at his partner, duly chastised. When Scully stopped to take a breath, she realized that she may have been a little hard on her partner, and softened her tone.

"So, what made Skinner change his mind?"

"I'll show you in the car, Scully..."

"You might as well show me now; it looks like the rental agent's not coming back any time soon..."

"Maybe now's not a good time, Scully..."

"...It's as good a time as any," Scully curtly replied. "Come on, Mulder...."

Mulder reached into the front pocket of his carry-on, pulled out the file, and handed it to his partner. Scully opened it, and stared at the crime scene photos. It was when she reached the close-up shot of the victim's disembodied tongue that she heard a loud thud. When Scully looked up from the file, Mulder pointed a finger over the counter. Both agents peered over the edge at the passed-out car rental agent on the floor.

"I'm only saying this once, Mulder," Scully replied. "You were right." 

************************************************************************

"What are you?" the detective yelled, "some kind of nut job or somethin'?!"

Detective Nick Baglione's face was within spitting distance of Mulder and Scully's faces, and the two agents could smell the remnants of the detective's last meal - pastrami on rye with onions, complemented by an Altoid chaser. Even the curiously strong breath mint could do little to disguise the pungent aroma of a hearty lunch. Above the neck, the agents neither flinched nor blinked, but under the table Mulder could feel Scully's foot as it shifted against his. Mulder had the same reaction, shifting his left leg in response to the detective's odiferous breath. Although their faces didn't register it, they were thankful when Detective Baglione sat back in his chair.

"You wouldn't believe the kind of comments I've been getting, agents," the detective replied, his tone noticeably softer. "That last one was the tamest of the bunch. I could turn the air fifty shades of blue with some of the stuff people have said; you don't know the half of it. But I'm sure you don't want to hear it... " Mulder looked across the table at the detective. "Why not?" he asked. Mulder felt the toe of Scully's size seven pump as it made sharp contact with his ankle. "What we'd like to know more about is the case," Scully replied. The detective got up to stretch his legs, walking around the precinct's interrogation room as though he were conducting a lecture. 

"We found the victim in midtown at around three a.m. in a stairwell on West Forty-Fourth between Ninth and Tenth; looks as though she was coming from the theater. We found ticket stubs in her evening bag." 

"Any signs of robbery or sexual assault?" Scully asked. "None," the detective replied. "That's what's so strange; this woman had to have had at least a couple of thou in jewelry, but none of it was touched. Credit cards, everything was left alone." 

"Well, I'd heard Times Square had changed, but I can't imagine thieves have given up stealing," Mulder replied. "Anybody who would have gotten close enough to look at this woman would have run screaming like I don't know what," the detective replied. "Maybe got too grossed out to think about stealing anything." 

"But I thought you New Yorkers were a pretty tough lot," Mulder said. The detective stopped by the door to the interrogation room, and opened it. "Maybe you two should see what I'm talking about before we go on."

The detective drove the three of them the short distance to the morgue, and the agents counted five near accidents in the span of nine blocks. After one near-miss, Mulder looked and noticed Scully white-knuckling the seat. Mulder placed his hand on top of Scully's to comfort her. "Rich, Corinthian leather," Mulder whispered under his breath. It was the first smile he saw on Scully's lips all day.

The detective and the agents managed to make it to the morgue in one piece. The three investigators walked down the corridor to the other end, went through the swinging doors, and presented their I.D.s to the clerk. They made a left past the desk, and went in. Detective Baglione walked to the third row of drawers, and opened the third drawer from the top. The detective held a corner of the sheet and paused before he pulled it back. 

"You seen the crime scene photos, right?" he asked. 

"Yes, we looked at them before we came," Scully replied. "Well, a picture may be worth a thousand words," the detective replied, "But I don't think there's a word in the English dictionary or any other dictionary to describe what you're going to see."

The detective looked at the two agents, and they nodded to signal that they were ready. The hardened New York investigator hesitated for a moment, took a deep breath, and pulled back the sheet.

Scully stood unflinching as she looked at the body in front of her; Mulder, on the other hand, had to turn away momentarily from the gruesome sight. When he looked back at the victim, he understood what the detective meant.

The victim was a petite brunette; from what anyone could determine, she was in her late twenties or early thirties. Her nails were buffed and perfectly groomed, and it was obvious she made more than the occasional gym visit. There wasn't a scratch on her body from the neck down; from the neck up, however, it was an entirely different story. 

If the woman had been beautiful, you couldn't tell it from her face. There wasn't a face to examine; instead there were ribbons of skin, muscle, and sinew. One eyeball trailed from its socket down her cheek, and there was a deep, gaping hole where her other eye should have been. Her mouth was open wide in a scream, but intelligible sound would never had come from her mouth. Her mouth was a gaping, black hole, and her tongue was noticeably absent. 

The detective gave his guests a moment to take it all in. "See what I mean?" he asked. "Pictures don't do it justice," Mulder quietly replied. "Yeah, you got that right," the detective answered. "And you know what I said the first thing I saw her? Said it looked like Fluffy the cat went medieval on her face. Hence the responses I got from my fellow law enforcement officers."

"A cat couldn't inflict this kind of damage," Scully replied. "Not your average domestic short-hair." 

"Not unless your average domestic short hair's a Bengal tiger," Mulder replied. "How could you make a positive I.D.?" 

"We're going on the I.D. she had in her evening bag; employee badge. Name's Jessica Vaneer. Some big shot at Peterman Advertising..."

The two agents looked at each other. "You heard the name before?" asked the Detective. "Yes," Mulder replied. "Shouldn't wonder," answered the detective. "People've been dropping their like flies. A friend of mine's daughter works in advertising? She says they're calling it 'the Peterman Curse.'"

"Most curses don't turn out to be curses at all," Scully replied. "There's usually a logical explanation." 

Mulder turned to leave. "Then why don't you look for that explanation?" Mulder replied. "If you do the autopsy, Scully, I'll go investigate the Peterman Curse right at the source."

"OK, Mulder;" Scully replied, "but only if you do the next one."


	6. Face Value

Angelica couldn't help herself. She knew she shouldn't do it, but her face betrayed her, and she did it anyway. She was well aware that her behavior was most inappropriate, especially in light of recent events. She had been to so many memorial services for fellow employees that she blocked out Wednesdays as a repeating record on her palm pilot. Her dry cleaners asked her the last time she dropped off her black suit if she would like a volume discount. "It's like the Bubonic Plague over there in your office," her dry cleaner said. "Just how many more people they planning on eighty-sixing over there?" Angelica shrugged her shoulders, just as confused and bewildered as the next person. "Wish I could tell you," she said the last time she picked up her suit. And then there was Hy. She missed her constant companion. She didn't have the heart to throw out her cushion, her litterbox, her cat toys. Her life and apartment felt smaller and emptier than it ever had before. The hole in her heart was the only thing that grew larger with each passing day.

Still, Angelica couldn't help it. She knew she shouldn't do it, but she did it anyway. It began in the center of her mouth and moved to each opposite corner, stretching her lips upwards, pulling the corners of her mouth almost, it seemed, to her ears. A grin. A silly, stupid, moronically idiotic grin covered her face, and it didn't have anything to do with the promotion she received; it didn't have anything to do with the fact that maybe she got the promotion because she was a little talented, and not because there weren't enough live bodies to do the work. The grin wasn't the result of any of these things. The grin that had taken over her face at this most inappropriate moment had little to do with her promotion and everything to do with the ceiling above her and the four walls that surrounded her.

Angelica finally had an office and a door that she could open and shut whenever she wanted. And it was this simple and seemingly miniscule thing that made her grin like a freaking Cheshire cat.

In light of recent events, age and cunning had definitely surpassed youth and skill. Well, age had in any case. The death of her boss, the senior copywriter, the recent murder of the senior partner, and the mass exodus of staff fearing "the Peterman curse" left Angelica as the only staff member with seniority. And seniority definitely had its privileges. The remaining senior partner promoted Angelica quickly through the ranks, giving her Jessica's old office and title shortly before he fled for an extended vacation to Fire Island. He would, he said, phone in all directives for the agency and for Angelica from there for the foreseeable future. 

There was talk in the office that the only way the remaining partner would be back was over his lover's cold, dead body.

Angelica was just getting used to her new-found power, but she made every effort to use it wisely. The first thing she did in her new capacity was to remove the cubicle that had been hers, vowing to herself that no other employee would be subjected to being the gatekeeper of the office. The fire exit next to her old space was returned its proper usage by the simple act of keeping it locked and armed. Three embarrassing incidents with people who tried to use it as an alternate exit cured any other employees from ever using it again.

Power, she began to discover, was good.

Angelica reached for her new "executive" mug - a gift from the rapidly departing senior partner- and left her new office in search of coffee. Her coffeemaker was on order, so until it arrived she had to suffer the trip to the company kitchen. She didn't mind; it allowed her to keep a finger on the pulse of company information. Just as she reached the door to the kitchen, she stopped to listen to the conversation of two interns standing next to the sink.

"My parents promised me a PT Cruiser if I give up this internship and go back to Texas," said one intern. Her friend gasped in surprise.

"A PT Cruiser?! Do you know how expensive they are?!"

"Exactly what we make for a year internship here," the intern replied, "but I think I'm going to turn them down..."

"Are you nuts?! What kind of crack you been smokin'?"

"Excuse me," the intern replied, "but I don't do shit like that. Besides, it's kind of exciting..."

"Oh yeah; right," her friend replied. "Exciting. I heard Midtown referred to as `the Concrete Jungle' but I didn't expect it to be so literal..."

Something in the intern's comment gave Angelica pause.

"What do you mean?" 

"Hello! Haven't you been listening? The Senior Partner? Jessica Vaneer? Face ripped to shreds like Freddie Kruger did it - Hel-LO! Nightmare in Times Square...."

Angelica wasn't aware she had stopped breathing until she found herself lightheaded and almost disoriented.

"They say her face looked like a freakin' TIGER went after her - don't you listen to the office gossip? My dad said it's the only way to get ahead in this business..."

Angelica found herself getting sick to her stomach. She somehow found the strength to stumble down the hallway back to her office. She left before she heard the most interesting part of the conversation.

"Well," the intern replied, "At least they've got a total Baldwin investigating this case. Sure beats the hell out of the last detective they sent..."

Angelica was thankful for her new door as she shut it quickly behind her. The room was spinning, and she found her body temperature rising and falling with each passing breath. "It can't be true," she thought to herself. "That's what you get for listening to gossip; that's what you get for eavesdropping in on private conversations..."

__

"So if you don't think it's true, then why don't you check?" the voice echoed in her head.

Angelica slowly made her way to her desk, and sat down. After five agonizing minutes passed, she found the nerve to place her hand on the desk drawer, and open it. It took another three minutes to reach for her briefcase, and pull out the evidence.

Her journal.

Her fingers nervously thumbed through the pages until she found the entry she wanted. It was a story, the story she'd written the night she was in Washington. The night her cat, Hyperbole died. In the story, her beloved cat had become a lioness, striking out against the vainglorious and proud. The tigress' first act of vengeance was against a beautiful woman named Jess....

The sweat poured down Angelica's face as the queasiness reached a peak in her stomach. She found herself retching in the trash can next to her desk, and her face was cold and clammy to the touch.

"Oh My God," she thought to herself. "I killed her. This is all my fault..."

__

"Don't be ridiculous!" A voice quickly answered. Angelica whirled around to see who was in the room, but she found herself alone. Shaken, she sat in her chair, burying her head in her arms.

But despite her best efforts, the voice continued.

__

"Don't be stupid about this, Angelica," it said. _"`What goes around, comes around.' Haven't you heard that? And she definitely had it coming to her. Every dog has it's day, and every bitch has her afternoon, and believe you me, that bitch had it coming to her for a long, loooonng time..." _

Angelica couldn't take it any more. Her body began to tremble in fear.

__

"Come on," the voice continued. _"Everybody gets what's coming to them in time, and isn't it time you got yours? Slaving away for years, putting up with bosses who don't know their rear ends from holes in the ground... Or maybe you like being treated like something you scrape off of your shoe..."_

"No," Angelica said aloud, "No, I don't."

__

"Then what's the problem, little girl?" the voice said._ "Control your own destiny! You've got the power right here in your hands. You can literally write your own ticket; you get what I'm saying? WRITE your own ticket, baby..."_

It was at the end of the last statement that Angelica saw a page turn in the book on her desk. And as if by magic, the pen she'd purchased the same time she bought the book appeared in the gutter of the book.

__

"Write your own ticket, baby..."

"So it will be an experiment," Angelica thought. "Nothing will happen. Write something down, and when nothing happens, you'll just go home early today - take a sick day - and come back in the morning..."

Angelica began to write, a quick passage that dealt with a young intern, a copy machine, and copy toner that spilled on his new shirt. As soon as she finished the passage, she heard a commotion outside of her office.

"Son of a ...."

"What is it, Mike?" someone replied.

"The damned toner cartridge leaked all over my new shirt...."

Angelica needed air, and she needed it now. She ran for the door. making every effort to put distance between her and the book on her desk. She ran so fast and exited the door so quickly that she knocked down the man who happened to be at the right place at the wrong time.

"Oh My God!" she gasped as she helped him up. "I'm so sorry..."

"I'm sorry; I think I know you. Roosevelt Arts Center - _Der Fleidermaus_; right?"

Angelica looked at her victim. It was him. Her savior. Her Adonis.


End file.
